The Patron Saint of Butterflies (9 page)

“When?” I whisper.

“As soon as possible,” Nana Pete says, smoothing my hair. “Don’t you worry.” The only sound in the car is the light rasping
of her fingers against my braids. “You know, it’s amazing,” she says. “My doctor just told me he wasn’t sure if I’d ever be able to make this trip again.”

I sit up. “Why? Are you sick?”

“No, no, sugar. He just wants me to get some tests in August. That’s why I came up now, so I wouldn’t miss our visit.”

I lean back into her soft belly. “Thank God you did.”

Nana Pete kisses the top of my head. “I was thinking the same thing.”

AGNES

I wake with a start a few hours later and crawl out of bed, rubbing the deep pockmarks on my back where the rocks have pressed into my skin. The light outside is deep yellow, almost orange, and the shadows on the lawn are long. The blue digits on the clock on my dresser blink 4:45 p.m. Another hour until dinner. I walk through the house calling for Nana Pete and Benny, but it’s empty. Where could they have gone? And how could I have fallen asleep?

Walking into the bathroom, I splash cool water on my face and brush my blond hair. Honey always says I’m the prettier of the two of us, but I don’t think that’s true at all. My lips are ragged and sore from constant gnawing. Violet half-moons gaze out from under my eyes and there is a new splash of freckles across the bridge of my nose. I frown. I hope I don’t get as many as Benny. I turn slowly, regarding my profile. I am finally starting to grow breasts. I’m ashamed that deep down this fact thrills me. I am becoming a real woman. But I also know that things like breasts can cause trouble for a girl who is planning on being chaste for the rest of her life. Maybe I will bind them with tape, the way Joan of Arc used to do before going into battle. Something to think about.

I cut through the kitchen to get to the front door, nearly tripping over one of the kitchen chairs in my haste. Claudia Yen, who lives on the second floor just above us with her
brother, Andrew, is standing in front of the stove, watching a grilled-cheese sandwich. Claudia is Mount Blessing’s doctor. She takes care of everyone here, from delivering babies to giving us our annual shots.

“Slow
down
,” she says irritably. “Andrew is sleeping upstairs.”

Andrew sleeps a lot. He is in a wheelchair because of a motorcycle accident he got into before he came to Mount Blessing. Andrew is kind of weird. For one thing, he has blue tattoos all over his upper arms. He also gives Benny a quarter for every frog he catches. Benny says it’s because he likes to pull off the legs, fry them up in cornmeal, and eat them for breakfast. It’s something I can’t even bear to think about.

“Sorry,” I say, catching the chair before it topples over completely. I slide it back under the table and resume my path to the front door.

“You all right?” Claudia calls out just as I close the screen door behind me. I stop. In all the years she has lived upstairs, Claudia has never said anything to me aside from “say aaahh” or “this won’t hurt a bit.”

I turn around, regarding her through the thin mesh screen. “Excuse me?”

Claudia shoves a spatula under the grilled cheese and flips it over. “You’re limping. Did you hurt yourself?”

“I’m limping?” I repeat.

Claudia turns the heat off under the pan and slides her sandwich onto a ceramic plate dotted with blue flowers. She picks a dish towel off the counter and wipes her hands with it. “Walk toward me,” she commands.

I step out from behind the screen door and take several steps, placing my feet evenly before me.

Claudia watches, a small hand on her hip, and nods. Her dark hair, cut in a blunt bob, swings from side to side. “You’re clearly favoring your left side. It might be a pulled hamstring. Do you want me to take a look?”

I shake my head and take a step backward. “It’s not … ” I hang my head. I can’t tell another lie. Not today. “I was in the Regulation Room this morning.”

Claudia’s face changes instantly. “Ah,” she says softly, busying herself once again with her sandwich. “Okay.”

I turn and push through the door once more. It slams hard behind me, making me jump. I head down the length of Sanctity Road, in the direction of the frog pond, hoping beyond hope that I will find Benny and Nana Pete there. The black pavement stretches out, disappearing around a curve flanked with birch trees. The last time I was on this road I had raced it hard with Honey, who strained and breathed next to me, urging me along. That was two summers ago. My hips ache from the memory. I can feel my steps getting lighter, my walk changing to a bounce. Instinctively, my elbows align themselves on either side of my waist and my shoulders square themselves above my torso. My body, poised and tense, tips forward, and a lightness fills my chest. Suddenly I remember the words of Saint Teresa of Avila:
Everything you do must be done for the greater glorification of God, never for the glorification of yourself.
I put my hands on my hips and take a deep breath, ridding my body of anticipation. Then I reach under my robe and tighten my waist string once again.

…

Nana Pete and Benny are
in
the frog pond, knee high in the murky water. Since they are facing away from me, they do not see me as I approach. I sit down on the mossy bank, next to Nana Pete’s pink boots, and bring my knees into my chest. Nana Pete is hunched over a part of the water dense with lily pads, her arm around Benny.

“Wait, Benny,” she whispers. “Not yet.” Her khaki pants are rolled up midthigh; the water is up to her knees. Bobby pins stick out from her unraveling braids like knitting needles. Her cheeks are flushed pink and the front of her shirt is covered with splotches of mud. I don’t know if she has ever looked more beautiful.

There is a shout on the other side of the pond, behind the weeping willow.

“Got ’im!” Honey wades out from behind the willow tree’s heavy boughs, which hang as thick and as dense as a curtain. A frog the size of a small hamster dangles from her right hand, its pale belly gleaming white.

“Oh,
man
!” Benny yells. “You really did get him!”

I shudder and move back instinctively.

Honey waves to me with her free hand. “Hey, Ags!” Nana Pete and Benny turn as Honey calls my name.

“Mouse!” Nana Pete says. “How long have you been sitting there?” She plods heavily through the water, holding up the cuffed bottoms of her pants.

I shrug. “Few minutes, I guess.”

“You get your nap?”

I nod, studying her features carefully. Has she learned anything else about the Regulation Room in my absence?

“It’s almost time for dinner, I think,” Honey says, dropping the enormous amphibian into a dirty yellow bucket not three feet away from me. I jump to my feet and take another several steps backward.

“Geez, relax!” Honey says, laughing at me. “It’s not going to bite you, Ags.”

“Just don’t let it jump out,” I say, eyeing the bucket fearfully. “Please.”

“Don’t worry,” Honey says. She sticks a bare foot into the bucket. “There. He’s right under my foot. He’s not goin’ anywhere.” I shudder and cross my arms. Honey looks at Benny. “Tell Andrew I want fifty cents for that one. He’s huge. We’ll split it, okay?”

“Hold that pose,” Nana Pete says, struggling up the grassy back. Her feet make soft sucking sounds as they sink into the mud. “I’ve got a camera in my purse. I want a picture of the three of you.” I sidle in as close as I dare to Honey, keeping my eye on her foot and the bucket. Benny squirms in under my arm. “Say cheese!” Nana Pete says, holding the camera to her eye.

“Cheese!” The Polaroid square slides out of the front of the camera.

“Beautiful!”

“Can I see?” Benny asks, leaning over Nana Pete’s shoulder. I look too. Our images, blurred like smoke, appear from beneath a faint brown haze. Nana Pete takes pictures every time she comes up. I never tire of looking at them, especially since we don’t have any pictures of our own.

“Mother!”
I jump as Dad’s voice, as sharp as glass, cuts
through the warm air. “Mother! Agnes! Benedict! Are you down here?”

Nana Pete looks up and grimaces. “Aw, rats. We’re not supposed to be down here, are we?” She sticks out her arm. “Come on, Benny. We have to go get cleaned up for dinner.”

I run toward Dad, who is striding toward us, his jaw clenched tight as a fist. “Hey, Dad,” I say softly. “We were just getting ready to—”

“What are you doing down here, Agnes? I told all of you to go down to the house! It is Ascension Week! You know better!”

I nod and gulp over the mound in my throat. “I was, Dad. I mean, I know. I went home just like you said, and laid down for a while. I even fell asleep.”

“Did Benny go with you?”

I break into a trot to keep pace with him. “No, he was with Nana Pete down here, I guess. And Honey too.”

Dad’s eye twitches. “That sounds about right.”

I stare down at the ground, thinking about something Honey said to me just a few weeks ago. “Sometimes I think you’d sell your own brother, Agnes, just to save your own soul.” A pang of guilt surges over me. I quicken my pace again to catch up with Dad.

“But I don’t think they’ve been here very long, Dad … I was only asleep for—”

“Mother!”
Dad yells, cutting me off again.
“Benedict!”

They are sitting next to Honey, wiping the mud off their feet with one of Nana Pete’s handkerchiefs. Nana Pete lifts her hand, the dirty handkerchief dangling between her fingers like a peace offering.

Dad comes to a halt a few feet from them, his face shiny
with perspiration and rage. “I don’t even have time to get into this with you right now, Mother,” he says. “You have to come with me immediately and get cleaned up for dinner. During Ascension Week, Emmanuel shares evening meals with everyone in the community and we cannot, under any circumstances, be late.”

Benny and I exchange a look. His eyes are wide with fear.

“Okay, okay,” Nana Pete says, patting her ankles with the handkerchief. “In a minute, Leonard.”

“Mother!”
Dad says sharply. He glares at Honey as she stifles a giggle. “We have to go now!”

Nana Pete shoves the handkerchief into her front pocket and stretches out her arm in Dad’s direction. He pulls her to her feet and then turns, striding back down the road again. I stare beseechingly at him as I struggle to keep up, hoping that he’ll look over and cast me a forgiving look. But he storms ahead of us the whole way back and doesn’t turn around once, not even when I trip and fall, cutting my knee on a rock.

Since Emmanuel rarely eats with the general population of Mount Blessing, when he does (usually during a holy week), it’s a huge deal. It’s also a sign of great disrespect to be late. Stragglers who show up after the six o’clock bell are locked out of the Great House for the rest of the meal. It happened to Dad once a few years back, right around this time. It wasn’t his fault—the car he was driving home broke down on the side of the road and he had to wait for someone to pick him up—but Emmanuel didn’t want to hear it. Poor Dad had to go back down to the Field House and wait for us to finish
eating. I told Benny to shove extra bread in his pockets for him, but Dad didn’t want it.

“No, Agnes,” he said, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have done that. Emmanuel is right. I deserve to go hungry tonight.”

“But it wasn’t your fault!” I protested. “The car—”

“Nothing happens by accident,” Dad said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Everything is God’s will. And tonight he was testing me. The truth is, I should have tried harder to find another way home so that I wouldn’t miss Emmanuel’s presence at a meal. But I didn’t. I gave up and just waited for someone to come get me.”

“But … ”

“No buts,” Dad said firmly. “God helps those who help themselves.”

I was so confused that I almost felt angry. Rule or no rule, Dad’s explanation just didn’t make any sense.
None.
But it had to, I told myself later, retying my waist rope in bed. After all, it was Dad talking. Next to Emmanuel, he was the holiest person I knew.

Tonight there is a low murmuring throughout the Great House, like the inside of a beehive. The room is a sea of blue robes moving in every direction. Mothers are hustling their children into their required seats, while others place baskets of bread on the table. There are green plastic bowls at every place setting, along with a small plate and cup. I follow Mom and Dad and Nana Pete over to our usual table and sit down. Benny settles in next to me and begins to fiddle uneasily with his glasses. I glance around the room, looking for Honey. Usually she is at the table opposite ours,
sitting with Winky. I catch sight of Christine, Claudia Yen, and her brother, Andrew, but I don’t see Honey anywhere. Where is she? I look up at the clock nervously: 5:57. She has three minutes before the Great Door will close and then lock.

Suddenly a hush descends and, like an enormous wave cresting, the room surges to its feet. Mom and Dad close their eyes and bow their heads, solemn looks on their already solemn faces. Benny hops up next to me, squeezes his eyes shut, and begins tapping the front of his legs with his palms. I look nervously out of the corner of my eye at Nana Pete. She is not standing.

“My children!” the familiar throaty voice calls out. “Good evening! Bless you all on the first sundown of the holiest week of the year.”

Dad opens his eyes briefly, frowns, and then pokes Nana Pete in the arm. “Get up,” he hisses. But Nana Pete just stares straight ahead.

I turn back around quickly, moving sideways and then forward until I can see Emmanuel through the throng of people. Fear flashes through me for a split second as I get a glimpse of the top of his head. His thick silver hair is meticulously groomed, brushed to one side in a deep swoop. When he talks, his yellow teeth glitter behind his beard, and his eyes seem to settle on every single person in the room. But it is his voice that finally causes me to drop my eyes, a deep baritone so full of assurance and authority that sometimes my knees feel as though they will buckle out from under me.